Honor Among Thieves - by Michael J. Solender

I know we're an English (based) site, but we'll respect the spelling of each respective author's native tongue...unless it's Transylvanian! So 'honour' becomes honor...

HONOR AMONG THIEVES

Of course there is honor among thieves. I told him straight-up I'd get my coins back and damn if I didn't make good on it. I have always been a man of my word, honorific and all that. Just because I was rat-arsed and knock down cabbaged gave no cause for him to break into me apartment and take me gold coins.

Today marks the second time I've stolen them, though the first was much easier and I didn't steal them from me little brudder on that occasion. In fact me brudder Jim and I had planned that heist together and had agreed to a fifty-fifty split which is exactly what we done. 32 coins, one troy ounce of gold each.

.999 pure.

16 Krugerrands and 16 Chinese Pandas.

"YOU-BIK-QWE-DIS." Jim said. A college boy. Said that meant they were every-present, which would make them easy to move.

At the market exchange rate on that particular day, we was looking at nearly 30 grand's worth a haul.

Granted he had the in wit da fence - no questions asked, he said. Deals in gold coin and bullion, he said. Smooth as babies bums, he said, with none a' the soiled diapers, he said.

His mate worked for the coin dealer and gave him the tip.

A poof up and around Piccadilly, his flat was a walk-up, completely hidden from the front view by the ornamental cedars. His mate had dropped packages there before and knew the place had a C/17 alarm that could easily be cut round the back and a kiddies lock on the front that wouldn't even slow me down.

"We'll be knocking down pints at the Farewell Arms and surrounded by lassies wanting a piece a' our pie, tonight Jimmy."

"Farewell Arms, bullocks that, palsie. I say we get us a proper bottle of Scotch and have a real meal at LLoyds, it'll be on me after we cash in."

"Well, you are the rightly Lord a' the Manor, aintcha? Not a scrapper like your older brudder, is ya? You can have LLoyds, I'll take me share and turn out at the pub for some darts and a pint or two. Let’s get this on."

Jimmy was a bit high and mighty, but I'd never worked with a better bag man and apart from working alone, he was the only one I trusted.

Until last week that is.

The job was just like it was laid out to be. Easy cut of the alarm, into the flat one, two, three and the safe, was anything but, in my silky hands. 32 lovely, shiny round gold coins. Thank you, we'll be on our way.

Jimmy, after calling his mate, says there's a problem with the exchange and we'll need to sit on the change a few days.

"OK," I says. “You wanna keep em, or should I?"

"Let's each take sixteen. I'm thinking about taking holiday on the continent and I'm not sure when I'll be back. I've got connections over there as well and they'll be easy to cash in for us both."

He takes the Krugerrands and gives me the Pandas. "There is not a spit of a difference between them," he tells me.

Oh but there was. It turned out to be quite a difference.

While celebrating me haul at the Farewell Arms that evening, I end up talking to me mate Ivan. I'm not one to brag and tell tales, mind you, but Ivan is ex-KGB and knows a thing or two about currency and gold, so I show him one of the Pandas and he nearly creams his britches right there at the table.

Turns out me Pandas are really super rare "Xian Feng Vault Protector" coins, only 1000 ever minted. These babies are worth 100 large each. He can fence them for me and clear me 75% of their value. Just to show that he's serious, he spots me some up front dough as a friendly gesture so that he can be sure I give him the action.

"No worries, Ivan. You are my man. My brudder's leaving for Paris tomorrow with his half and I got the rest of mine at me flat. We can make the arrangements tomorrow." That was the plan.

3 hours later as I staggered into me flat, there's Jimmy smoking me cigars and drinking me brandy. He's got me coins in his hand and he's shaking them about.

"You were gonna just let me jet off, weren't you, BROTHER."

"Oy, you made the split, fifty -fifty. How was I ta know? Did that bastard Ivan ring you?"

"As a matter of fact he did, brother and I'll just be taking 8 of these and leaving you with the 8 Kruggerands and we'll be square."

I was too drunk to argue. He split and I passed out.

I woke with a block of brick for a head, but enough presence of mind to go back and reclaim me coins - fair was fair.

As, I told yous earlier, today marks the second time I've stolen them, though the first was much easier. I didn't steal them from me little brudder on that occasion.

And I didn't put a bullet in his brain that time either.


BIO:
Michael J. Solender has two older brothers. One collects gold coins.
Michael blogs here: http://notfromhereareyou.blogspot.com/

THINE IS THE KINGDOM - by Lee Hughes

The inimitable Lee is back with the latest part of his classic tale...

Part Ten of the Osseous Box.

THINE IS THE KINGDOM

Tobin Preacher was out pinching rooks from the sky when he stumbled upon the thread of blood.

His knuckles grew white as his grip tightened upon the sack of rooks.

He looked back towards the farm, he knew he should go and fetch his father.

Watching the mountain had been the life's work of his father. As it had his father before him, so forth and so forth, back to the darkest of times.

He knelt and touched the blood.

He knew what it heralded. Again, he thought of going back. However, there was the fear that he might be 'crying wolf'

Tobin straightened, worked the bolt on the rifle to spit out the spent shell and fed in a new one.

***

They'd known that there was something important buried on the mountain. The Preacher family had been holding a vigil over it, waiting for this very day.

They didn't know much about what it was hiding. They knew just enough to know that they were doing the Lord's work. Moreover, that it was inevitable that the day would come when it was uncovered. When that happened, it was their job to keep it a secret and re-bury it somewhere safe.

***

Tobin made easy work of Snaefell, long sure strides ate up the distance.

He slowed as he reached the summit. He watched the ribbon of blood coursing towards the Visitor's Centre.

Tobin was surprised that his older brother Vinnie hadn't noticed the phenomena and investigated.

Vinnie worked as the cook in the little cafe whilst his mother worked the Visitor's Centre. They'd figured it was the best way to keep an eye on the place whilst Tobin and his father took care of the farm.

***

The cafe was empty.

Tobin smiled.

Vinnie would be at the back of the kitchen having a smoke.

The first thing he saw when he went through into the kitchen was his brother slumped dead on the floor with a knife planted in his face.

Tobin became awash with rage.

He snapped the rifle to ready. He was already thinking the worst for his mother.

He moved as if he was on the hunt as he worked his way to the door of the visitors centre.

With the door open, he saw a man standing with a shovel raised. He also recognized his mother's shoes poking out from behind the counter.

Tobin didn't hesitate. He trained his aim and put a lump of .22 into the man's shoulder.

The man spun and dropped to the floor.

Tobin looked around and saw another two dead bodies. A woman with her throat cut and a man who'd been beaten to death.

He walked over to where his mother's feet were sticking out. He needed to see the rest of her, see what the bastard had done to her.

Strangled, the monster had strangled her. In return, he had shot the monster, which, however wouldn't be enough. He felt like putting another bullet in, this one in the man's brow. He took the blanket from the woman with the sliced throat and used it to hide his mother.

At the hole he stared at what the man had been about to bash. It was a box, about the size of a chest from a boy's pirate comic. This one was crude and made of bone.

Tobin stared at the man. The wound wasn't fatal. The man had blacked out through shock. He'd seen the same happen with birds and small animals, alive but inert.

Tobin pulled the shovel from the man's grip and tossed it. He looked into the man's pale face and couldn't for the life of himself see anything of the madman or murderer in his features.

"He's saving it."

Tobin knew that voice. He'd gone to school with him. "Mord…" he let it hang, as there was no one there.

"The Beast has been working through minions to find the box and to break it, freeing an abomination that could bring Hell to Earth. The man you just shot, Jon, he was helping me to find it."

Tobin listened to the vapid voice learning what it was that he had to do.

***

Tobin knelt beside the man. This was all new; he'd removed bullets before from rabbits. However, they'd been dead; you didn't need to perform surgery when you were readying them for the cooking-pot.

He got the toolbox from out the back and wrenched the bullet free with a pair of needle-nose pliers

Jon's eyes flew open and he screamed. His eyes were wild as if he didn't know where he was. He slumped back down and began to remember.

Jon's teeth clenched when he hissed. "Fucking bastard!" He flung up the fist that was connected to his good shoulder.

Tobin managed to move most of his head in time but still managed to earn himself a jarred-jaw.

"Hey!" Tobin pushed himself backwards to get out of the way in case Jon tried to have another go. Tobin made fists and wanted to give him one back twice as hard.

He loosened the fists and used a hand to rub at his jaw instead.

Jon looked down at his bared shoulder and the swelling about the puckered hole.

"You shot me."

"I thought you were breaking the box."

Jon looked up and thought about what had been going through his mind in the moments before being shot. If he was being honest with himself then he had to admit that there was something inside his head urging him on to break it open.

"Next time try a rugby tackle." Jon managed a dry smile. Even that trinket of a smile vanished when his eyes took in Beth's body.

Tobin noticed him staring at the dead woman.

"Your wife?" Tobin asked.

"No. Only met her for the first time yesterday, she was only helping me. Now she's dead. She was covered before you shot me, where's the blanket?"

Tobin pointed at the feet that still stuck out from behind the counter.

"I took it from her."

"Why?" Jon's eyes hardened.

"She's my mother. The man, the one in the kitchen, that's my brother."

Jon's eyes softened. In the real-life game of Paper, Scissors, and Rock, dead mother beats dead librarian.

Jon nodded over to the first-aid box.

"Can you do the honours?"

"Sure, was gonna patch you up but you came to."

***

Jon winced as he pulled the tourist tee-shirt down over the crude dressing on his shoulder. It looked like it had been done in the style, a La Generation Game.

Jon nudged the Box with his feet. "We were planning on dumping this thing."

Tobin nodded. "We still are. We need to go back to the farm and tell my father about mum and Vinnie. Hopefully he'll also know what to do next."

"Why would he know what to do next?"

"The Preachers have been keeping watch on this mountain since the first Preacher, way back when."

Jon gave a lopsided shrug. The young man before him seemed a little too calm considering his mother and brother had been murdered on the same day. He couldn't help but ask, he still had a copper's curiosity.

"You don't seem all bent out of shape considering, you know." He tipped his head towards the feet.

Tobin looked to the bashed in remains of the man who had slain most of his family. "Who's there to get mad at?"

Jon conceded it made sense, although not much. "Let's get a shift on. It's starting to get dark and I'm pretty sick of this mountain. In fact I'm sick to the back teeth of this island."

***

Tobin started Vinnie's car.

Tobin had driven it off road from the car park and up to the visitor centre.

Jon didn't want to look in the backseat. Tobin hadn't wanted to leave his family on the mountain. So, they were sprawled on the backseat in some kind of clumsy embrace.

Tobin had said there was room for Beth. It had given Jon the vision of an old joke, how many elephants can you fit in a mini? Only there were no elephants, just dead people.

She'd be fine where she was. He just wanted to get the box hidden again before it all came out and there they were standing in the middle of the whole mess with five dead bodies to answer for.

***

Jon watched as Tobin and his father made two trips for the bodies and carried them inside. Tobin hadn't bothered to introduce them to each other so Jon decided to stay in the car whilst they said their goodbyes, or whatever it was they were up to.

Now that the backseat was empty, he found himself stealing glances towards the boot where the Box was. Darkness had pretty much fully descended; there wasn't anything for him to look at. He noticed the keys were still in the ignition and turned the radio on.

Jon had only just managed to find something to listen to other than Radio 2 when the windscreen smashed through.

"Shit." He did he best to cover himself from the debris.

He could hear a savage growling as whatever had smashed the windscreen climbed through.

Jon opened the door and allowed himself to spill out. Opening the door had turned the interior light on.

The sight made him move back further.

It was the beast from the previous night. It had changed somewhat in appearance. Its features were pretty much fubar'd. The beast had made its nocturnal home out of Billy even though he was dead. Jon could make out bits of the human face that hadn't been caved in all stretched and distorted.

"Tobin!" Jon hollered.

He gained no answer. He ran for the door and banged on it.

"What's up?" Tobin asked.

Jon hiked a thumb over his shoulder.

There was something big thrashing about in the car.

"Dad, get your gun."

***

They fired volley after volley of shots into the car. Tobin worked away with his puny .22, his father churning out big noises with his double-barrelled shotgun.

Jon realised what the thing was trying to do. The Box was in the boot, there was no way it could break in from the outside. Getting inside on the other hand and tearing through the soft of the seats would be a doddle.

The air filled with the stink of cordite, but still the thing thrashed within the car, causing it to rock like there was one hell of a fuck going on inside.

Jon looked around for something to use to beat it unconscious as he had the previous night.

He gave up looking when he heard the explosion. At first, he thought one of the Preacher's had gone and hit the sweet spot on the fuel tank. There was no smoke, no flames; just the back end of the car in tatters.

The monstrosity had made it to the Box and broken it.

They watched in petrified awe as the back-end of the car issued forth a sulphurous stink. From the mist something hideous formed, disgusting in design and repugnant all over.

It stretched to release the kinks it had earned in its seven-hundred year imprisonment.

Tobin let fly another shot. The beast barely felt it before bounding off to fulfil what it had started out doing all those centuries ago.

Jon's reaction said it best. "Oh, fuck."

The beast was returning to Hell and when it got there, it would lead the others out.


BIO:
Lee Hughes's short fiction has appeared on or in, Cern Zoo: Nemonymous 9, Thrillers, Killers 'N' Chillers, Microhorror, A Twist of Noir, Every Day Fiction, New Flesh Magazine, The Daily Tourniquet, Powder Burn Flash, Blink-Ink and FlashShots. Find out more at www.LeeHughes.net

EVERYDAY PEOPLE - by Paul D. Brazill

For a man that needs no introduction...it's that Polish, Englishman who's absolutely Brazilliant!

EVERYDAY PEOPLE

Brendan Burke was a creature of narrow habit and come rain or come shine, come hell or high water he always ate meat on Fridays, even though, around the time of his seventieth birthday it had begun to play havoc with his digestion.

‘Rebellion,’ said Brendan to Tony Amerigo. ‘Rebellion against the shackles of my Catholic upbringing.’

‘Power to the people,’ said Tony, raising a clenched fist.

Tony had been a butcher since leaving school, as were his father and grandfather, but business hadn’t been so good since the influx of supermarkets selling cut price cuts of meat. Curmudgeons like Brendan were a godsend for Tony.

Brendan put the meat in his checked shopping bag and headed off.

‘Post office?’ said Tony.

‘As per usual,’ said Brendan. The social kept trying to convince him to have his pension paid into the bank but Brendan dug his heels in, stuck to his guns. He hated banks and enjoyed his trips to the post office, the centre of the local tittle tattle. ‘And then I’m off to the naval club, though I still don’t know if I’m an inny or an outty’.

He chuckled to himself and was still chuckling when a scooter jumped a light and knocked him arse over tit.

***

‘Jeezus, don’t send for her!’ said Brendan. Skye, the featherlight social worker, had suggested phoning his daughter in London and getting her to come and take care of him for a while. He’d barely been in the hospital a week, discharging himself after complaining about missing two sessions at the club.

‘She’s worse than her bloody mother was for fussin’ and fannyin' around,’said Brendan.

‘Well, you need a carer, Mr B,’ said Sky.

Brendan shook his head as he looked at her. She was sparkling and fresh, from somewhere down south. How could she have a clue about anything?

‘Do you know anyone?’ she asked.

Brendan just stared at her nose stud with disgust.

***

Oliver Sweet ducked into his flat as soon as he saw the social worker enter the building. He’d seen her before in the record shop where he hung around. She’d bought a Janis Ian CD and she’d tried to make conversation about it but it wasn’t exactly his cup of cocoa. Neither was small talk. Oliver was a bit of a mouse, who kept himself to himself, and it would surprise most people to know that he loved to listen to Sly Stone, Bootsy Collins and Funkadelic. These were what blew his skirt up. Along with taxidermy, collecting funk on vinyl was the centre of his life.

When Brendan moved into the flat opposite, Oliver was a bit worried that he’d complain about the noise but after talking to him a couple of times he relaxed . Brendan was as deaf as a post.

He was listening to Sly Stone and changing into his ASDA uniform when he heard the scream and the bang. He stuck his head out of the door and saw that Brendan’s door was was open. And then he heard coughing, choking.

‘Are you alright Mr Burke?’ he shouted. No reply.

He went to Burke’s door and knocked.

‘Mr Burke?’ said Oliver. He went into the flat, saw Brendan doubled over and ran towards him.

‘Are you alright?’

Brendan looked up with tears in his eyes. Tears of laughter.

‘Sorry...Sorry, Sweety,’ said Brendan. Oliver hated that nickname.

‘Couldn’t resist.’ He wheezed. ‘I just wanted her to piss off, so...’ he coughed. ‘So, I grabbed her knockers. The stuck up little cow soon scarpered then.’

‘So, you’re okay,’ said a blushing Oliver.

‘Aye,’ said Brendan. ‘Do us a favour and pass us that bottle of vodka from the mantelpiece and get two glasses from the kitchenette.

Oliver wasn’t much of a drinker but he thought he needed to clam down before heading of to work.

He poured the drinks.

‘A toast,’ said Brendan.

‘Na zdrowia, as Polish Andy used to say. To your health.’

Brendan downed the vodka in one and Oliver did the same but it burned like molten lava.

***

After a week or two it was decided that Oliver would be Brendan’s carer. He’d do the shopping, cash his pension and pop in now and again to keep an eye on him.

Oliver started to like drinking with Brendan and the carers’ allowance that he received meant that he could give up his job at ASDA. In fact all was tickety boo until Bonfire Night.

***

Tony Amerigo’s voice was like a dripping tap to Oliver and the woman at the Post office was even worse. Still, he endured and managed to pop in to the record shop before lunchtime to buy Parliament’s ‘Up for the down Stroke.’

‘Pricey stuff this,’ said John, the owner of the shop. ‘Been saving up your pennies, Sweety?’

Oliver ignored him and headed back home.

***

‘The Post Office was packed again,’ said Oliver to Brendan.

Brendan said nothing, of course. He’s said nothing since he’d broken his neck falling out of the bath on November 5th. Oliver still liked these evenings, though. Steak, vodka and a bit of Bootsy playing in the background. He glanced over at Brendan as he unpacked the rest of the shopping and thought that he really should have bought some more formaldehyde.


Bio:
Paul D. Brazill was born in Hartlepool, England and lives in Bydgoszcz, Poland. He has had stories in A Twist Of Noir, Six Sentences, Powder Burn Flash, Thrillers Killers n Chillers, Beat To A Pulp and other such classy joints. He can be found stalking ‘Paul D. Brazill, you would say that, wouldn’t you?’ at http://pdbrazill.blogspot.com/

WOLVES By Kieran Shea

We welcome Kieran to TKnC with...

WOLVES


“Easy there girl, easy now.”

The animals brown eyes rolled toward Craig’s voice. The dog was on her side in a dry pile of oak leaves on the road’s shoulder. Bleeding bad, panting, fading quick. Craig stroked the animal’s knotty, brown fur and felt the trembles beneath.

The driver who tagged the dog had pulled over about forty yards ahead. He threw open the door of his huge, metallic SUV and strode toward them with vague purpose and obligatory unease.

“Jesus God! That dog came out of nowhere! Cripes. Did I kill it? Is it OK?”

The driver was dressed for business. White shirt, striped tie, French cuffs stabbed with bright cufflinks. His black dress shoes glinted in the long October sunlight and Craig could see the dark silhouette of the man’s suit jacket hanging behind the driver’s seat. There were quite a few of his type living on the Eastern Shore now, snatching up all the deep water real estate, driving far to complicated jobs in Washington, DC and Baltimore, building mansions in which Craig hung drywall.

Craig looked down at the suffering dog. He knew the animal. Larry Hasting’s water bitch, a Chessie, about three or four years old. Larry’s place was set back in the field off to the right down a smashed oyster and pea gravel driveway a few hundred yards in that hooked to a small, brick ranch home with yellowy windows.

Mr. Hasting sold Craig’s father some tires once a few years back. Craig knew that Mr. Hasting was working at one of the new Royal Farms gas station/convenience stores down near Easton. Hasting’s wife worked there too, frying chicken and mopping up the day to day wear and tear. Even if Craig hoisted the dog into the bed of his pickup truck and annihilated the speed limit, the poor girl didn’t have a chance. Craig was uncertain as to where the nearest veterinarian’s office was, plus the dog had that knowing look in her eyes. Animals resign far easier than us, Craig thought.

Craig had a Remington rifle sleeved under the back seat of his truck, a .22 for taking out pilfering pests in his parent’s garden. He briefly considered loading a round.

“Look, I’m late.”

“Late? I’ll say. You were hauling ass.” Craig pointed down the elbow in the road where the woods thickened on either side beyond the scrub, “I was coming from that direction and I saw you. This is a county road, mister. I know people use it to bypass the highway but people live out here. You’re not some teenage kid.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

A breathy grunt of disdain, evaluating and condescending.

“I wasn’t speeding.”

Craig got up from his knees and gave the driver an incredulous look. So, it was going to be that way. “No use denying it, mister,” Craig gestured at the tracks in the road, “Look at those brake marks. You need to be moving fast to brake and leave any kind of rubber behind on asphalt like that. There’s a swivel.”

“Yeah, well that dog could’ve killed me.”

“Didn’t.”

“And I wasn’t speeding. Look, I don’t need to be lectured by someone like you. There are laws in the state of Maryland about controlling your animals. Look it up.” He turned to go.

“Wait. You’re just going to leave her?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you think you should at least call the owner? The name is Hasting. He lives in that house right over there. Must’ve gotten loose.”

The driver clucked his tongue. “Dogs should be fenced in.”

“Dog like this would burrow out. She’s a Chesapeake Bay Retriever.”

“Should be tied up then.”

“Yeah, but—”

A wave of a hand and the driver continued his march back to his SUV, “My car is banged up and I have a meeting within the hour over across the Bay Bridge in Annapolis. You’re so concerned you call the owner.”

“And you’re just going to leave?”

The man kept walking. At the door of his SUV he turned, “What’re you going to do? Stop me?”

Craig brisked his steps. “I might.”

The man blinked.

“I’ve already memorized your plate,” Craig added, getting a few steps closer, “I’ve a cousin who could look it up. Works for the county.”

“That a threat?”

Craig stopped near the SUV’s bumper. “Just saying, it’s the right thing to do is all. Call the owner, mister. Say you’re sorry.”

The driver laughed. “Right thing to do, listen to you. You. Threatening me. Over a stupid dog?”

“Those are your words not mine.”

Craig took a step forward and the driver toddled back ever so slightly. The driver’s face shifted in strength, remembering what little he knew about going into a fight, about defensive measures, about protection. He moved into the road with a readying look in his eye. Craig saw this as a cue.

And they circled. They circled like wolves.

BIO: Kieran Shea’s short crime fiction has appeared in seedy little ‘zines and Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Living outside Annapolis, Maryland, he bitterly kicks the tires of the status quo on principle and drinks far too much coffee.

REDSKIN DEAD By James Hilton

REDSKIN DEAD

Tyler Hogue had been the sheriff in the town of Virtue for nearly fourteen years. For most of that time the most dangerous thing he’d encountered was a runaway packhorse down what passed as main-street.
The town lay on a north eastern meridian, forty miles above Santa Fe.
The town of Virtue had started life as a frontier post, once holding a small garrison of Army troops. The army had long since moved on, now what remained was a ramshackle array of one story buildings that seemed to struggle to remain vertical under the intense gaze of the New Mexico sun.
Most of the three hundred or so residents lived a peaceable existence. They didn’t care much for newcomers; many of which were of German or Dutch heritage - which they often un-kindly referred to as ‘Hoople Heads’ due to their European scarf style hats.
The town was quiet though; many of the surrounding towns had it much worse. Many of the trails-men and cattle herders told horror stories of life in Texas. Both Mexican Bandidos and Indians run amok down there it seemed…Stealing and scalping for all their worth.
No, Tyler Hogue was happy to be up in Virtue all right.
That was until an Indian renegade breezed into town and started to tear up a storm.
It seems his name was Mal Mal. Also known as Mal Orizaba.
It was said that he was named by a Mexican Priest at birth…Mal being Latin for BAD. The child was so ugly he named him twice! Orizaba was the dustbowl that he’d been born into, a real Mexican armpit of a town at that.
Mal Mal had a reputation for killing cowboys and pilfering anything he could lay his hands on. Rest assured, as soon as it was known that he was in the vicinity, the people of Virtue were demanding Tyler ‘go get him!’
As already stated Tyler Hogue was all for the quiet life as well and by the time he’d decided to get a posse together, Mal Mal had shown up in the Twisted Spur Saloon.
Within fifteen minutes, Morris Garner, a worker in Jessup’s mercantile store lay dead on the floorboards, a single gunshot wound now decorating his face where his nose used to sit.
Tyler had no idea what had caused the outburst, but as he entered the saloon, Remington pistol in hand, he took in the picture…
Mal Mal stood over the corpse of the bespectacled shelf stacker and was now pissing on the dead man with great ceremony.
“Get your hands up right now!” ordered Hogue. Tyler was no hero, but the sight of this desecration enraged him.
Mal Mal kept right on urinating and in that instant Hogue knew he should have just executed the renegade redskin right there and then.
Tyler glanced around the bar room. Half a dozen customers were pressed against the far wall; as if they remained perfectly still perhaps the psychopathic killer that was Orizaba might simply overlook them.
Tyler knew that his hesitation was a wrong move; especially when Mal Mal spun smoothly towards him, an old Colt service revolver in hand.
The Colt boomed, the retort from the pistol deafening in the enclosed bar.
Hogue’s hat was snatched from his head and an intense flash of pain snapped across his eyes.
Roaring in pain and fury, the sheriff returned fire. Both men were less than fifteen feet apart and scorching lead ripped through the air between them.
Both went down and the crowd in the bar gasped and yelped in fear.
Then Tyler surged to his feet and closed on Mal Mal.
But the Indian rose too, now clutching a bone handled skinning knife in his hand.
The sheriff knew better than try to reload, so quickly drew his own knife from his belt.
The two men clashed into each other with brutal force.
Mal Mal slashed low then ripped upward, trying to gut the sheriff with a manoeuvre he’d used many times before. Tyler dodged sideways and back slashed at the Indian's throat. The knife grazed a misshapen forehead but no real damage was done.
They closed on each other again.
The surrounding crowd stared on, dumbfounded looks on their faces.
The two men wrestled and tore, each striving for the advantage.
Mal Mal pivoted and threw the sheriff over his hip; but Tyler had a good hold and both men clattered to the ground again. The Indian sprang to his feet and raced through the swing doors of the saloon. Tyler gave chase from pure instinct.
Neither man had time to reload so when the lawman closed on the Indian, they were both still armed with a knife and an empty pistol for a club. The two opponents veered down a side alley.
Tyler Hogue leapt bodily and took the renegade from behind. Down in the dirt, both men slashed and stabbed and bit and cursed.
The sheriff felt his blade sink deep into the Indian, killing deep! Then Tyler caught something hard and unyielding in the side of his head and an intense white light filled his head…his whole world…then nothing.
He had no idea how long he lay prone in the dirt, but when he clambered to unsteady feet there was no sign of Mal Mal.
“Slippery bastard!” cursed Hogue as he staggered back to the saloon.
As he entered the bar room he stopped dead in his tracks.
Mal Mal lay on the saloon floor. A wide pool of blood had spread out below him. He was as dead as a man could ever be.
A series of four ragged bullet holes decorated his ruined chest. Angry crimson flowers plucked in the garden of death.
Then Tyler gagged on his own tongue. “Jesus, NO!” he gasped. But no one paid him any heed.
The crowd were staring down at the corpses on the ground. Both renegade and sheriff lay prostrate and still.
Tyler stared down at his own dead body and wailed.
Voices that sounded a thousand miles away commented…”At least the sheriff took him with him. The dirty Indian shot the poor sheriff dead before he hardly had a chance to do anything.”
Another voice; “Yeah, but Hogue plugged that redskin dead before he dropped. The sheriff was a tough son of a bitch after all!”
Another; “Well at least the sheriff can rest in peace now, no more redskins where he is”.
An intense white light filled the bar-room and Tyler Hogue, Sheriff of the quiet town of Virtue flowed effortlessly into the oddly-luminous tunnel.
Deep into the path to whatever lay beyond; Mal Mal drew close to the dead sheriff’s spirit.
“Ready to go again lawman?” he jeered as he slashed with his knife.
“I’ll kill you!” swore the sheriff.
“You did that already, let’s fight!” said Mal Mal.
As they span and ripped and tore at each others disembodied souls, one man was in his own heaven and the other in his own Hell.

BIO:
James Hilton - also known as Jim, but never Jimmy - is an aspiring author who straddles genres. You can read more of his fiction here http://www.jimhilton.co.uk

POKER WITH A BANG - by David Barber

David's back...

POKER WITH A BANG

The gun lay on the table between them, a menacing sight with its wooden handle and silver body. It was an old fashioned six shooter, the type used in the westerns they’d watched in earlier years.

“What do we do with it?” Tony asked.

Laughter.

“What do we do with it? What the fuck do you think we do with it?” Andrew sucked at the thick cigar between his lips and smiled as he blew out a thick cloud of noxious smoke.

It was a Friday night and it was poker night. The four men had been meeting on a regular basis for the past two months. They had a limit of fifty quid per person and beer and spirits flowed freely. It was Andrew’s house where they played and the mood was set for each session. He’d had a pull down light fitted above the round kitchen table and it hung low, barely illuminating the faces of the four players.

Roger lifted a glass of whisky to his lips and drank some of the fiery liquid, ice clinking in the glass as he placed it back on the table.

“What we do is pick up the gun, put it to our head and pull the fucking trigger,” Roger advised, filling his whisky glass back up with the Jameson’s he’d brought.

“Are you for real, you actually want to play ‘Russian roulette’ with that thing? You mean to tell me it’s fucking loaded?

Laughter again. The fourth member of the quartet was Adam and he’d bought the gun, ‘To spice things up on a Friday night’, he’d said to Andrew.

“Oh, come on Tony. Are you a fuckin’ chicken or what?” Adam asked, blowing cigarette smoke across the table at Tony.

“Or what? What do you mean by that Adam? Am I supposed to just go with the flow ‘cos I don’t want to be a chicken? Well pal, I aint no chicken but I aint no fucking idiot either. Count me out if you think I’m playing around with that.”

Tony drained the rest of his whisky, slammed his glass down on the table and walked out of the kitchen to the front door, slamming it shut.

“Aw, Tony. Come back mate, we’re just fucking around. Tony……….Tony?”

“Let the shit bag go, Andy. I didn’t like the twat anyhow,” Adam said drunkenly.

Roger took another large slug of his whisky, coughing as it went down. “Yeah, let him go. We can always get another player for next week. Come on, let’s give this a trial run.”

“Yeah, ok. Right, we start with me, then clockwise and the ammo’s in the fourth chamber and it should have been Tony, right.”

Andrew looked at the other two men, their faces in half shadow.

“Ok guys, come on, let’s do it. Right, I’ll go.” Andrew aimed the gun at his forehead and pulled the trigger. The hammer slammed against an empty chamber.

He handed the gun to Adam. Again, an empty chamber: the same for Roger.

Andrew took the gun from Roger. “Ok, this was Tony’s turn.” He pulled the trigger and there was a bang, a cloud of plaster fell from the ceiling.

Drunken laughter erupted in the kitchen, followed by three gunshots. In turn, Andrew, Tony and Roger fell forward onto the table, blood seeping from wounds in their foreheads. The pull down light swung above the table from where Roger had knocked it when he’d slumped forward.

In the shadows beyond the table, Tony was illuminated each time the light swung. In his right hand, smoke still swirled from the barrel of the gun he held.

“I didn’t like poker anyway.”


Bio:
Manchester born and bred, but now living in Crieff, Scotland with wife, Lisa, and our two daughters, Imogen & Melissa. Wrote some years ago but have recently been inspired to write again by an old and good friend (Col Bury) and the beauty that surrounds me up here. Always reading - when not entertaining my girls and working - crime and horror…and now writing.

David blogs here: http://davidbarberfiction.blogspot.com

ELECTRIC - by Christopher Grant

A welcome return from a top crime flasher...

ELECTRIC

Her body is electric against mine. A simple touch of her smooth hip and I feel like a jolt is running through me. It's enough to make me want to touch her again. She whispers something I can't hear. I lean into her and she says it again.

"I'm going to kill you."

I'm sure that's exactly what she's saying.

She's quicker than I expected. Her fist holds a taser. She puts the instrument to my throat and the alley goes blue for half a heartbeat. Then I'm choking, ten thousand volts running through my windpipe, closing it off, making breathing impossible.

She kicks me in the groin and I tumble to the cobblestones, trying to stop the pain, trying to find the air.

The last sound I hear before the darkness swallows me is the echo of her stiletto heels carrying her away from me and out of the alleyway.


BIO:
Christopher Grant is the editor and publisher of A Twist Of Noir. His crime fiction can be found here at Thrillers, Killers 'N' Chillers, as well as Powder Burn Flash, Not From Here Are You? and The Flash Fiction Offensive.

NEW YEAR'S TOAST - by Nicole Hadaway

Welcome to Nicole who provides us with a chilling chapter from her ebook, Release...

NEW YEAR’S TOAST

Neil walked down the cold, damp London streets. It was shortly after three in the morning, on what was now, officially, January 1, 1945. You couldn’t tell, really, that the New Year had been celebrated at all. Morale was rather low in London after nearly five years of air raids, bombings, evacuations and blackouts. Neil himself had finished his shift at the air raid siren station and was now headed to his mate Mark’s place for a subdued celebration. He couldn’t wait to get a taste of the black market whiskey that Mark had managed to get, for his hands were nearly frozen; this entire winter it had been so very cold.

So Neil walked along the deserted streets lined by terraced houses, thankful that the moon was still bright enough so he could find his way around without tripping over too many curbs or bumping into lampposts. It was bad enough that he’d had to serve as an air raid warden, but the fact that they gave him the night shift for that night was just intolerable. Though when he thought about it, a few scraped knees and cold fingers was a small price to pay for having escaped an entire war of army duty.

He’d been lucky that the injury on his right hand, received when, at the age of five, he’d stuck them in the meat freezer at the same time the butcher had decided to close the case, thus chopping off three fingers, had been his ticket out of serving in the army. He couldn’t very well shoot a gun with only two fingers on his dominant hand. Britain had still made him ‘do his part’ by manning the air raid sirens. God, the noise those things made; even though he wore earplugs, he didn’t think his hearing would ever be the same. Still, better than being a corpse on a Normandy beach, like his brother.

Neil pushed the glum thoughts about his brother from his mind by looking around at his surroundings. He’d left the part of the neighborhood where houses and apartments abounded, and now entered the warehouse district. To fill the silence, which only made him think of his brother more, Neil started to whistle, concentrating on the tune.

As he sucked in a breath to start another verse, he heard the flutter of wings behind him, like a bird or maybe a bat, which was odd, as there was nothing to attract birds on this street in London. There were no trees or fences for them to perch on, just the unlit streetlamps, like the one he’d just bumped into, and the warehouses that kept wartime supplies, such as the plethora of gas masks that all London citizens carried, even the babies. When he thought about it, the warehouses were probably perfect places for bats to nest in. Yep, that had to be it.

Neil mused on how he’d never seen a bat before, and he wondered if perhaps they minded flying about in such cold weather. He thought about turning on his lamp; the cowl over the top of it made the light shine downward, so it shouldn’t attract too much attention. Then he remembered that bats might be attracted to light, and he didn’t want the bat to get caught in his hair. He’d heard that bats could be awfully nasty if they flew in your hair – they got caught in it so badly that the only way to get them out was to shave your hair off. He had a bad enough time with women as it was; he didn’t need to be bald as well.

The fluttering over him stopped, and Neil heard what he thought was a low, soft thud! behind him. He turned around, partly out of curiosity and partly out of fear – did something just knock the bat out of the sky, why would it drop to the ground like that? Switching on his handheld lamp, Neil slowly, cautiously looked behind him.
There was no bird or bat, but a man, standing about ten yards away from Neil, well out of the glow of the lamp.

In the moonlight, however, Neil could make out the man’s features; he was tall, with curly, dark brown hair, and light, piercing blue eyes that Neil could see as if they were only a foot in front of him in full lamplight. The oddest thing was that the man was standing with his hands on his hips, watching Neil, nonchalantly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do. They stood like that for a few moments, staring at each other, until the man smiled, and started to laugh, slightly throwing back his head at whatever he found amusing.

Neil was worried. The war and the bombings had chased most of the crazies out of London, but this one must have stayed on for some reason. So he turned back and started walking briskly, hoping that Mark had left his door unlocked. Neil hadn’t bothered to turn off his lamp, let them fine me if they want; even better, I’d welcome a bobby right now to keep that nutter away from me. Mark’s small apartment was above a warehouse at the end of the street, about fifty yards from where Neil was now. He was thankful that he didn’t have too far to go to get away from the crazy bloke and out of the cold, which was hurting his throat and lungs as he sucked in air.

Neil hadn’t traveled very far before his breathing, heavier now from his increased pace, hurt too much, he slowed down. Forcing himself to breathe quietly, Neil listened for any sounds coming from behind him. Nothing. The absence of noise made him hope that he was no longer being followed. Neil chanced a look behind him, shining his light broadly around, and saw with relief that the crazy man was gone. Probably gone back into the warehouse or something, he reassured himself. As he turned his head back towards Mark’s apartment, a dense fog rolled past him. He coughed for a few minutes, thinking it was odd that the fog had suddenly appeared like this, out of nowhere, in the middle of these warehouses. But that’s London for you.

The fog cleared, and Neil could see ahead of him. An icy frisson of fear ran from the tip of his head, down to the bowels of his stomach. The crazy bloke was now in front of him, leaning against a building wall between Neil and the safety of Mark’s place. The man’s casual air was gone. He suddenly stood up straight in one movement, which was very strange because he hadn’t even bent his body. It was as if invisible wires had pulled him into a standing position. Then the man started walking towards him as if he expected Neil to just stand there and wait for him.

There was no way Neil was going to get messed with tonight. He hadn’t made it this far through the war, with its air raids, rations, and the threat of Nazi invasions, only to meet his end at the hands of some crazy on a back street of London. No sir, not tonight, especially not on New Year’s Day.

Neil dropped his lamp, and then made two moves simultaneously. He turned to run – he was a pretty fast runner, and had kept in shape. He also pulled out his pocketknife and opened up the blade. He didn’t want to get into a fight; it had been ages since he’d been in one, and with his right hand he was well aware of his handicap.

However, just in case…

Neil’s foot had barely touched the pavement when he was stopped dead in his tracks again, as there was now another man, one who seemed to have been standing behind him this whole time. A blond man this time, with pale skin, yet very dark, almost black eyes. A Nazi – oh my God, they’ve made it here! he thought in a panic. Before he could think of his next move, the man opened his mouth and, speaking English without any accent asked, “Hey Cray – how much longer? Daylight’s not too far away.”

“Awww, Denny, relax! They’re on double daylight savings time here,” an amused voice called out from behind Neil.

Neil heard a whoosh of air and before he could turn around, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

He turned towards the hand on his shoulder, and found himself staring into pale blue eyes. Eyes that seemed to bore into Neil, forcing him to drop the knife, which he’d been holding out, poised to strike.

The man reached over with his other hand and took the knife, tossing it to the side, saying, “You won’t be needing this, friend and we’ve our own ways of getting your flesh and blood.”

Neil knew he should have been afraid – he was afraid – but he couldn’t move; for some reason, he was rooted to his spot. One part of his brain screamed fight, fight, fight!, but the rest just wouldn’t allow it. Maybe it was because he knew the man was strong and he could feel that his shoulder might break from the crazy man’s grip.

It did break. Neil heard a loud snap! and felt the pain shoot forth from his shoulder down his arm and across his chest. Through the pain, he thought he heard someone say, “Sorry chum, but I like it when the marrow gets into the blood, with the adrenaline. Makes it tastier.”

Neil tried to scream, but something was at his throat, almost strangling him. He felt the fire of his shoulder meld with the burning at his throat. All he could do was look up at the bright light of the moon as its white aura quickly engulfed his entire body.

BIO:
Nicole Hadaway used to work as a Lawyer and now lives with her family in Texas. Her novel, Release, which features vampires in a World War II setting was published as an e-book by Vamplit Publishing.
Nicole blogs here.

VERACIOUSNESS - by P. S. Gifford

Horror writer, Paul, makes his debut...

VERACIOUSNESS

The hammering downpour battered mercilessly against Philip’s apartment window, threatening to break in at any moment. Philip seemingly oblivious to the torrential storm, sat at his cluttered desk typing away frantically. His strained blood shot eyes, receding hairline and drawn out features made him appear far older than his forty-one years. The single radiator in his apartment failed to defeat the chilling wind penetrating the ill-fitting windows.

Philip shivered, and pulled his frayed cardigan tighter around his torso. A wry smile infiltrated his customary impassive features as he re-read what he’d just spent the last six hours writing. He glanced at the clock, in five hours was supposed to be back at the accounting office, along with thirty other anonymous faces. Yet work he must, as royalties he had earned recently would barely keep him in food, yet alone the modest rent of even a place as dilapidated as his.

Yet, in the evening Philip transformed from a mild mannered office rat to a man with an obsessive passion to write.

Philip had always enjoyed reading ever since he was a young child back in his native England. He often read up to four books a week, finding extraordinary comfort in the realities and alternate worlds that were deftly created within his mind. What had particularly captivated his imagination, as he grew into a teenager, was the world of horror. He read, and re-read, all the classics, from the masterpiece tales spawned from the twisted, brilliant minds of Ambrose Bierce, Edgar Allen Poe, H.P. Lovecraft. To the modern masters of the trade, such as Stephen King, Dean Koontz and Clive Barker- to name just a few. It was when he moved to Chicago with his father that the urge to write, which had been building up inside of him for as long as he could remember, took a hold over him.

Whereas other teenagers dated, went to movies, and got into the usual trouble that teenagers tend to get in to, Philip wrote. At first his words were pathetically clumsy and inadequate…and everywhere he submitted he quickly got rejected. Yet Philip persevered, working eight hours a day at his mundane desk job, and a further eight hours each evening writing. Finally, after years of disappointment, he managed to get published in a few small time journals, which led to a few magazines, which ultimately progressed, over ten years of writing, to his first novel. Whereas the book itself received a mixed reception from the critics, it sold surprisingly well. In fact well enough to garner Philip a coveted writing contract with a major company.

Amongst his critics one voice was distinctively louder and more vehement against him than most, a certain Justin Holloway. Justin wrote literary reviews for several of the nations leading newspapers, and was regarded in high esteem from his peers. Justin expressed in his distinct glib patronizing style that horror fiction was a dead, or at least fatally wounded, industry.

Yet, despite this, Philip bathed in whatever glory he could garner from his modest accomplishment for a few months. He even managed to afford a leave of absence from his soul draining day job. Philip appeared on local radio shows, attended book signings and genre conferences. He experienced a tiny, yet sublimely tantalizing, glimpse of the life of a successful writer. And this became his addiction far more than any drug could ever get a grip. Alas Philip’s success was short lived, his follow up book got tepid reviews and barely sold, and Justin Holloway relished linguistically attacking his work in his reviews.

In the proceeding years of that initial successful book, Philip penned nine more novels, each getting a more panning critique from Justin; almost as if Justin had some twisted personal vendetta against him. If his tenth book failed, his commitment to his contract would have been fulfilled.

Philip stretched languidly and read aloud the last paragraph he just had written.

Rudy simply sat there cautiously examining the scene he now found himself in. As he pulled his long black mohair coat tighter about him he lit another Pall Mall cigarette and greedily inhaled it. He felt his hands finally stop trembling as the nicotine began to penetrate his blood. Glancing at his watch he realized it was approaching midnight and time for him to get going. Walking methodically over to the body, he could still see the intense fear alive within the dead man’s eyes. With no hint of emotion Rudy reached down and slowly retrieved his ten inch butcher’s knife that, moments before, he had effortlessly slipped into the unfortunate mans heart.

This was Rudy’s twelfth murder. His skill at butchery had unarguably become quite refined. Suddenly an image of his very first victim abruptly replayed within his mind. He recalled how the man had squirmed, begged and whimpered. It had taken eight stabs of the knife and a few bangs over the head with a baseball bat before he finally extinguished life from him.

“Yes, I have come a long way over the last six months,” Philip mumbled as he fondly remembered the real life rehearsal of the scene he just had written. This is certainly my finest hour…

He discovered that the art of murder wasn’t as easy and a straightforward as he had initially assumed, and that missing illusive ingredient had been missing from his books. Without which any sense of reality was not achieved. Philip appreciated that some basic knowledge of anatomy was going to be of benefit to him, if he was to master the art of murder. He spent many a night at the library since; reading, learning and evaluating. Upon each lesson, he would set out into the night yet again.

Of course all these murders and butchering had been merely rehearsals, just experiments in technique to improve his skill at writing on his favorite topic. But now, after months of planning, he was finally going to achieve his ultimate objective. At long last he would have retribution to the man who had spawned so much hatred within him. Philip’s eyes sparkled as he focused on his last e-bay purchase; a book simply entitled ‘The history of torture.’

Philip, remembering vividly chapter seven, then allowed his gaze to fall on a tabloid he kept, for inspirational purposes, on his desk. He re-read the words that continued to fuel his anger; words that had transformed a once kind-hearted Philip into a ruthless, blood thirsty killer with their unsavory venom.

“The Revenge of a Madman" by Philip McGregor - A book review by Justin Holloway.

What has the world of horror become over the last twenty years?

It seems that all originality has been replaced with variations upon the same few tired mundane themes. Case in point, the newest book by the author, and I use the term in its loosest form, Philip McGregor. It was to my great horror that I was assigned to review it and I hasten to add that was the only horror that I felt during the whole experience. Philip writes using a formulated series of plastic, transparent clichés. You are fully aware when reading that Philip has not experienced anything remotely horrific in his life. In fact I would go as far to say that he has never as much even killed a rat. Philip if you are reading this. I strongly urge you to either give up on this style of writing or go out and experience life.

Philip felt the thrill of adrenaline, spawned by his hatred, course through his veins. He got up from his desk allowing his rage to manifest into courage. As he put on his black mohair coat he stared wistfully at the address he had finally, after many years of searching, discovered; Justin Holloway’s. With that, he felt for the duct tape and croquet needle in the coat’s inside pocket, and Philip methodically closed his apartment’s door, heading into the stormy bitter night, towards his car.


BIO:
Paul Steven Gifford was born on April 28th 1965 in Birmingham, England. Paul, from a remarkably early age, discovered he was completely fascinated with the written word. By the age of nine he was devouring several books a week, and had begun to write.
In the early 1980’s, he and his father relocated to the Californian coast, which he has cheerfully called home ever since. He has three horror antholgies published, is a regular on the convention and book signing circuit and is a member of the Horror Writer’s Association. Paul lives in Lake Forest, California, is married, has a teenaged son, two dogs, one rabbit and an endless dream.
www.psgifford.com

Opportunity for our authors

I'll leave it to the instructions here to explain all.

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